


When Lions and Wolves Hunt Together

by orphan_account



Series: The Lions of Summer and the Wolves of Winter [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Aaaand the books are beautiful so this is based on the show, F/M, Gen, People don't have to die terribly!, and Margaery -- sorry Margaery, except for Petyr, on in definite hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-14
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-01 13:49:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...their prey is often the stag. </p><p>Arya is found out by Tywin, who tires of his mad grandson's actions. The Starks aren't the only people in Westeros who know that winter is coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Girl, wine. Two cups.”

Arya startled—she had been organizing his letters for him, trying to do it fast enough to not let on that she was reading whatever she could from them and committing it to memory. He was waiting for his council to reconvene after a long week of waiting. She had not seen such a patient man since her father sat as Lord of Winterfell. He was as cold as the North, despite living in a land touched eternally by summer. Father had been hard like frozen ground—but like the ground he was not always bound by the northern ice. Lord Tywin was like the cold that froze fingers from hands and ears from heads, unrelenting and most of all patient.

She quickly went to the table and filled two cups. Lord Tywin had been extremely merciful to her, even she knew that. She was allowed to sleep in safety because what man was man enough to attack Lord Tywin’s cupbearer? She was allowed to wash, and piss, and eat when she wasn’t serving the great head of the Lannisters. Arya Stark didn’t ask questions, she didn’t speak out of turn when she could help it, and she damn well tried to be the best cupbearer Lord Tywin had ever had.

When he found out her identity, because she knew she couldn’t hide forever under his nose, if he remembered her loyalty he would perhaps ransom her with her sister rather than take off her head as his grandson Joffrey had taken off her father’s.

“Shall I guess who you are, girl, or shall you tell me? I’ve known you for a Northerner for some time—never mind your admission of it—because no high born girl of the South would so easily get her hands deep in muck. No high born Southron girl would so willingly learn to serve, or pick it up so quickly. Now, shall I guess or shall you illuminate?”

She set both cups in front of him, one he took and the other he pushed a little to the right and motioned for her to sit. Arya sat and took what he offered her. It had been several weeks since he had educated her to take what her betters gave to her. She took a protracted sip from the rim of her cup, staring at him in silence until he understood her answer—that he would guess.

“You say your father taught himself to read. That is a clue, if I would spend time to sift it for truth. A stonemason with the stars of dragons and Targaryens clouding his head. A Northron father dead of loyalty. This is what you have told me of this father of yours—do I have it right?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Oh, and a mother who served a Lady Dustin, too. A mother serving nobility, a father carving stone and reading. Who are you, girl, I must wonder, if these are your ready lies for family and history.”

She took another bracing sip from the cup, knowing that this was the first time he was taking time to actually think through her lies. Behind her the fire crackled, and she could smell her own sweat getting old in her clothes—Lord Tywin allowed her one full day to attend to her clothes, saying he was around men sweating through armor and horses with piss and shit in their tails, he was not frightened of a cupbearer only slightly cleaner than a scullion.

“You are cool, you do not break when the shovel strikes you. Hard, frozen earth—and patient too. Believing the winter’s frost will let you free someday.”

The cup was slowly warming to her hand, and she gripped it tighter as Lord Tywin stared at her over the rim of his own cup.

“You are the little _Stark_ girl. I wasn’t aware that you were any place but King’s Landing. When exactly did you get away, so that I might know which of my beloved children is ultimately responsible for not telling me. And once you’re done, why haven’t you buried a knife into my neck?”

“May I ask a question first?” He made a grand gesture for her to continue.

“How did you work out Stark from all that?”

His smile was indulgent as he drained his cup and settled into his chair. Arya stood and poured him some more, and his glance at the hearth had her adding a couple logs before she sat again. His smile was almost kind, now. Sometimes she found herself liking him, he reminded her faintly of her father’s brother, Benjen. Benjen’s coldness, however, came from what he’d seen above the Wall. Lord Tywin’s…the origin was more of a mystery.

She took the liberty of adding a touch of water to her own cup of wine as he took a breath to speak. These might be her last minutes, she would do with them as she liked.

“A father with time and care and foresight to teach a daughter to read, and read well. A man with pride in his blood of his family, even the least of such a family. A Lannister or a Stark. A stonemason, a man who carves to keep his family—and you talked of this stonemason father with much more pride than a gutter rat child. The North is as hard as stone, and all life there is scraped and chipped—and carved. The best known of any Northron family would be the Starks of Winterfell.”

The fresh logs on the fire popped and sputtered as Lord Tywin worried a finger on an old pock mark on his table. Arya sipped her wine and kept quiet.

“And then the dragons. The oldest and best books and scrolls about dragons are contained in the Stark libraries. Winterfell has remained in the Stark family for longer than most noble families have had sigils for their flags. My son mentioned a book he dubbed fascinating, loaned to him by Lord Eddard Stark, found deep within the Stark family library. Contained therein the history and description of the Targaryen Conquest, with special attention to the Targaryen dragons.”

“And my mother?”

“Only great ladies from the South care about each other’s names. You can take people North, but you cannot take the South _out_ of them. Knowing that your father is a Stark, it makes sense that your mother is Lady Catelyn Stark.” He paused for a long moment, and then, “Lady Dustin has a boy around your age, a boy whose father has more money and men than he has sense. The best way to make him _find_ some sense would be to tie him permanently to the Starks.”

Arya managed a wavery smile at Lord Tywin as he stopped speaking.

“Before Sansa was betrothed to King Joffrey, Mother wanted to have her marry Lord Karstark’s son. Lady Karstark’s cousin is Lady Dustin, whose son they hoped to give me to. Mother is a Tully, they like marrying sisters to blood-brothers—she could hardly help it.”

Lord Tywin laughed shortly, gazing off into the hearthfire behind Arya’s left shoulder. She wondered if he ever laughed in earnest or if he always had the hardness of winter air around his eyes.

Winter is coming, those were her words. Winter took all manner of forms, she’d found since going to the warm southlands.

“Such behavior starts wars, to be sure, but it also forms alliances that are difficult to break. Your mother probably reconciled herself to marrying you off to Tommen, or, if your father would hear of it, a Lannister boy. As it stands, I have half a mind to promise you to that smith you were caught with. A commoner’s betrothal to a common bastard boy would do nicely to keep you in line. And then, when the time comes I will perhaps marry you to Tommen instead. The great Lady Stark will be so proud.”

“But Tommen cries so, my lord!” her cup sloshed a bit of wine on the table as she slammed it down.

Lord Tywin’s grin was fierce as he stood up and ruffled her hair as he passed by. She had assisted in bringing up food for the council meeting, and it was growing cold as they spoke—no doubt the man wanted some of his midday meal hot. As he loaded food onto his plate—she had not brought him mutton since he’d expressed dislike for it and he had started eating more. Arya was, oddly enough, proud of this. She was controlling the great Lord Tywin of House Lannister, if only by getting him to eat properly.

“My son Jaime opened the veins of the Mad King for reasons he has never shared with me. My grandson is far worse than the mad Targaryen at far younger an age, and I have planned an accident for him. Accidents _do_ happen to passionate, energetic, brash—reckless—kings. We must remember the good king Robert who died, and we must remember that you must be queen. A girl who loves her family, knows that it raised her and made her who she is because of it—a girl who might guide Tommen to be a good king.”

“A girl who might bring the North back into the fold, you mean.”

He sat once again and didn’t look up from his meal for a few minutes. Arya rolled her eyes and got herself a plate too. According to Maester Luwin the lions in Essos just killed their prey after they caught it. With a long glance he had told her that the lions of Westeros would play with it for a time. Fine, she could play along. Lord Tywin was like her father, allowing her her games with easy grace. The difference being that her lord father had loved her as though she was his best son—Lord Tywin might any moment shout for his guards.

The food wasn’t tasteless in her mouth and she hated it. Weren’t those condemned to die supposed to only taste ash and soot in even the richest meal?

“Your brother Robb will pay the price of rebellion. If he’s a father to any they will live as hostages to preserve his life. If he is not, his head will pay that debt. Your sister Sansa is too old for Tommen, I will marry her to my son Tyrion. His words have been,” she looked up at his pause, seeing his face conflicted for only the barest of moments, “disturbing as of late concerning the treatment of Lady Sansa. Through the lines I read that he is one of few who care for her, and so will make a fine husband for her.”

He glanced at her, scrutinizing.

“I put a queen on the throne once, and I haven’t been able to trust her since. I am gambling, little wolf, that putting another queen on the throne won’t repeat such a mistake.” Arya gave him a flat look before she began speaking, low and rational at first but growing slightly in volume as she went on.

“Tommen cries—he’s a coward. A good little boy, but a coward. He clung to his nursemaid every moment I ever laid eyes on him!” Arya’s voice was raised to a shout, her utensils thrown without grace on the table. She was her father’s daughter and spoke wisdom and sense when it was called for. Yelling if necessary. Lord Tywin wiped his lips with a cloth and set his own food to the side for the moment.

“Tommen _is_ a coward, with a weak mind that is agreeable to everything suggested to him by those who care for him. A wife cares for a husband as the primary among her children. I believe I can bring the North to heel because the capitol will finally listen to them with an understanding ear and speak back words they can understand. I believe you will help me in that confidence one day because you owe me _this_ day. And,” his tone turned wry, “if the rebel rallying cry has truth in it, the boy you wed will be more Lannister than Baratheon.”

“And my mother will see that my brother meets your terms so long as my sister and I are safe,” her voice was barely audible, knowing already how fast her mother would agree if only to save her children. With a shaky hand she reached for her cup of watered wine. The snap of the fire startled her and she almost knocked it over.

The old man nodded, sliding his plate in front of him once more with a loud scrape. He was methodical as he ate, now, as he waited for her to answer his own questions. Which Lannister was in King’s Landing, and why hadn’t she seen fit to murder Lord Tywin yet. Arya knew better than to push her food around the plate. Her mother, somewhere, ought to be proud of her. Her father would be proud though as she started to cut her meat and chew on it as she spoke.

“One of the sworn brothers of the black took me from the city on the day King Joffrey saw fit to unburden my father of his head. Someday I will see his head on a spike, and I will make the queen watch. And then I want to see her head on a spike. I would make Ser Payne do it, but I don’t think he would understand why. I think I would burn him, like the Dothraki savages do for their lords and ladies. I would burn him alive.”

Tywin was working on some gristle, staring at her now in the relative quiet of the room. The fire had found all the pockets of sap and burned like whispering behind her back. She wondered if he saw in her girlish face the face of a young and rebellious Ned Stark. She wondered if he saw the lanky ghost of the then-uncrowned stag, Robert Baratheon, next to her.

“And you aren’t actually on my list, my lord. Your grandson, your daughter, others—but not you. The first time I saw your face was here, when you saved me from the tickler. You saw a girl when others had seen a boy. You weren’t kind, my lord, but neither have you ever been cruel.”

“So I—“

“But I did think about it one day. I had a knife, and you had your back turned. I’m quiet on my feet when I want to be, and I’m little so I’d be hard to shake off. I thought about it long and hard. I still don’t know why I didn’t.”

They were quiet then, listening to the shouts of men coming or going from patrol. People screaming as the torturers looked for the Brothers Without Banners. Chainmaile tinkling on knights walking the passageways. She stared at him, and he stared right back at her.

“You must cultivate that feeling then, she-wolf, but you must also work to understand why you must feel it. A queen must sometimes kill, or choose not to kill when she as ample ability. All people must do this, but men oftentimes get away with ignoring it. That is their privilege, and many lose their heads over believing it is a right. Women must tread carefully. Do you think you can continue to tread carefully—perhaps I might allow Robb Stark to keep his head on his shoulders if I present you, my Lady Stark, with the head of my mad grandson? A show of my faith in your quiet feet and quick mind.”

“Can I be allowed to best Tommen at archery?”

“You will be queen. And despite what Mad Aerys Targaryen, Robert and now Joffrey Baratheon were taught to believe, it is not the king who may do as he pleases. Kings must decide fates, kings do not have long for reflection while the head of a house sworn to them kneels at their feet. Kings must keep the people, or else the people will support other kings—just as it happened before the Targaryens, and then before the Baratheons, and now we live these days because a king did as he liked instead of giving thought. As much as I am sure my mad grandson enjoyed seeing your father’s head on a spike, the thought now gives the rest of Westeros little joy.”

There was a knock at the door and Arya sprang up to clear the table. A lord did not sit with his cupbearer and break bread with her. Certainly not Lord Tywin of House Lannister. As she passed by him a second time, the knife rattling on the plate with her slight shaking, he caught her arm and his hard blue eyes looked deep into hers.

“I tell you this, tiny Lady Stark, because the only one who may question, truly question, the queen is the king. Because she has no true responsibility and no true overseer the queen may do as she likes. If you’d like to best Tommen at archery, I will see it done if I have to send him out without a string for his bow. Are we come to an agreement, she-wolf?”

“You give me Joffrey’s head, Robb’s neck unopened, and control over the one who sits on the Iron Throne—and I give you peace from the North and a means to enforce reason on the king?”

“Just so, I might even give you Cersei’s head depending on my mood.”

She went to the door, and laid a hand on it to open it.

“I accept. Though I do warn you, I will need you to go over my plans on how to defend King’s Landing from dragonfire. One can’t be too careful, and winter is coming.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...they devour what they catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so this story has subscribers apparently, and I was in the mood to write so here is some fic. Not overly edited because fuck editing. Because of the touch-and-go-nature of this, I am trying to leave each chapter nicely tied up at the end because I sure as hell don't want to make this a multi-chapter thing  & abandon it with a cliffhangery ending. 
> 
> So for now expect some updates, but don't expect to get all riled up by obvious cliffies.

Arya rode into King’s Landing abreast of Tywin. She had refused offers of procuring a dress for her to wear today, instead requesting breeches and a tunic. The days of such clothes were to soon come to an end, especially since Mother was making her way South to serve as Arya’s guardian. _I hate this city_ , Arya thought as she readjusted her grip on the reigns. The set of Tywin’s mouth indicated a similar sentiment, and she made a note to ask him of it later.

For now she waved, settled well into the saddle, at the common folk who bowed to her as the future queen. The announcement had been proclaimed several weeks ago from the Sept of Baelor, on the steps her father’s blood had washed, and the city buzzed that another Stark girl was to wed another questionably Baratheon king. It wouldn’t come for another few years, she knew. First she and Tommen had to grow a little—her blood would fall before Tommen became a man able to wed, but the proceedings would be speedy after that.

The peace in the meantime would be tenuously held by Sansa’s marriage to Tyrion Lannister. By now most of Westeros knew that the true adversaries of the civil war were the family of the West and the family of the North—the two brothers of Robert Baratheon petty claimants of a throne that belonged more to Ned Stark and Tywin Lannister than any others. Mother would see it done through Robb, though Arya didn’t yet know what Mother managed to say to her elder brother to force him to cease the fighting.

Perhaps it was the small truth that Tywin had told Arya herself. Tommen and Myrcella Baratheon were more Lannister than anything else—and so the fight was not about the murder of Ned Stark, it was about the succession of the crown. To continue fighting would lead only to the Iron Throne, a throne which Robb vehemently denied wanting.

What was there to fight for in a civil war about the succession if a _place_ in the succession was not won?

The answer was to tie up the loose ends of claim—both of bloodline and war-won legitimacy. Arya knew it, Tywin knew it—and Mother knew it, Mother who knew how to play this game far better than Robb ever would. Robb had too much of Father in him, Arya thought sadly as she held her head as regally as she knew how, and Father had had more honor than sense.

“Your sister has become a woman in your absence I hear,” Tywin said softly as they left the crowds and rode in the gates of the keep. The walls were draped in the mourning colors of House Baratheon—a dark gray field with golden stags locking antlers—and the guards were closed mouth and serious as they showed the Hand and the queen-to-be through. Their surrounding entourage diverted to the common stables, while Arya and Tywin would ride right into the throne room. She hoped she looked good enough—her breeches were dyed Stark gray, and her gray cloak was lined with white. Remind those of the court that she was Ned Stark’s daughter, and how they ought treat her if they liked their place here in the capitol.

“You mean she’s old enough to wed,” she replied to her captor-conspirator. Just because she was working with Tywin didn’t mean she was ignorant of what this was. A girl her age had little recourse when caught in the lion’s maw as she had been back at Harrenhal, and she was playing the game as she could. Tywin nodded in answer to her, glancing around at the city and seeing the same siege defenses as Arya was starting to notice. There was a fair bit done, but it seemed a little thin in Arya’s estimation.

“We shall wait until your mother and goodsister arrive, however,” he said, taking his eyes deliberately away from the battlements. Arya followed his lead.

“No sense having Stannis Baratheon kill both of our families should he breach the walls, you mean.” There was a tight smile then, and an admiring glance.

“As I stood my army down at Harrenhal, I should hope my son has made proper preparation to withstand the Baratheon fury—we shall see how well he roars.” Arya nodded, keeping to herself that Tywin’s army followed their party in secret. There were more spies in King’s Landing than there were lords and ladies, and that was saying something. Led by Gregor Clegane and Loras Tyrell—estranged from High Garden, he and his men claimed, for Lady Margaery’s betrayal and murder of Just King Joffrey—this secret army would decimate Stannis Baratheon and break the only remaining hold-out against the succession of Robert Baratheon’s children.

There was no doubt in her mind or Tywin’s what was to happen when Stannis was sighted, but they were playing the game. It was a game not of thrones, Tywin had told her a week ago on the road, but a game of power and patience. Who sat on the throne was ultimately of no import unless they had enough power to keep it solely for themselves—the last kings able to do so had all been Targaryens with dragons.

Now was the age of lords becoming supporters and allies of the crown, no longer simple servants of it.

“Do I really have to say my heart yearned for Tommen so much that I broke my disguise and asked your help in coming here?” she whispered as the guards opened the first of many doors into the keep.

Tywin gave her a curt nod and Arya bit the inside of her cheek to help her remember the pretty little speech she was to give Tommen. The boy was lost and alone—easily guided and swayed—in Tyrion’s last letter to his father, since Queen Cersei had had to be locked in her rooms and kept docile by a literal potion of droughts given her by a maester. She’d gone mad watching her son die, it seemed. It was lucky for Arya and Tywin’s plan that she was so indisposed, as there would be no poisonous voice in court questioning Stark motives.

There were two heads on spikes just above the doors, Arya realized almost too late to glance at them. One was Petyr Baelish—the old friend of Mother’s that had been so strange. The other was a lovely woman with brown hair that was matted from blood and wind, but must have been lustrous and beautiful when she’d been alive to care for it.

The Mockingbird and the Poison Rose—Margaery Tyrell had, in the throes of her death-fever, named Baelish as one of her conspirators against the king, though she never named the actual poisoner. Since she had already succeeded in _killing_ the king, those she named were deemed treasonous and executed within hours of their capture. Arya wondered if they’d been lovers—if the babe Lady Margaery had miscarried the first night of her fever had been the child of the Mockingbird for that would provide ample motive for the man to aid her in killing Joffrey.

Never mind that the king’s death had been on Arya’s secret order—the last name handed over to Jaqen H’ghar. Perhaps he’d somehow known he would have to kill Lady Margaery as well, for her, which is why he asked for something in return. _A kiss and a name is what a man would ask for to kill a king,_ was all he’d said to her. A kiss that told her he would have taken her far away from Westeros had she asked it of him, and a name for her firstborn. His name. The name that would have been hers should she have followed him where his kiss led. _H’ghar_ _Baratheon_ would be a good name, she knew. It was an old Valyrian name, and it meant _oath bound_. She didn’t know what Jaqen meant, and shied away from using it.

Besides, H’ghar was better than the equivalent Westerosi name—Otbunt. She doubted Jaqen would have liked it if she named his proxy-son Otbunt.

She’d kept riding while lost in her thoughts, her horse following Tywin’s lead more than her own, and now she gazed up at the huge doors that led to the throne room. They’d had several weeks to plan this moment, and now it was here. Tywin Lannister was going to strong arm another king into another marriage to secure power, and she was going to help him.

It sent a thrill of terror chased by excitement down her spine. Who knew women’s games could be as interesting as those of men?

Her mother arrived with her goodsister in tow a few months after Stannis Baratheon’s defeat and death. Lady Talisa Stark was heavy with child, the child everyone hoped was a boy for everyone’s sake, and often sick. She had travelled too much during her pregnancy, Mother said, but Arya rather thought it was that the oncoming winter did not agree with Lady Talisa. There wasn’t much of a winter in Volantis, at least not one that brought colds and flus with it. Mother fussed over her daughters and gooddaughter in equal measures of different medicines.

For Lady Talisa it was the concern of a grandmother-to-be as well as doses of guilt and antagonizing. Mother did not want Lady Talisa as a wife for Robb, but she was now stuck with her—Mother had never been good at making peace with the choices of her family members.

For Sansa it was the concern of a mother of a grown daughter. Sansa was fifteen now, and her wedding was to take place as soon as possible—before the birth of her niece or nephew by Talisa. Should the babe be a girl, Sansa’s wedding would tide both sides over until another child was conceived. Should the babe be a boy, the marriage between Tyrion and Sansa would act as mortar on the peace. Arya had early on not understood how crucial it was that Robb’s wife bear a son until Tywin had pointed out that with Bran and Rickon missing any young boys might step forward as Robb’s heirs and give the North a new king (or three) to rally behind.

Robb having a son would fully legitimize his decisions as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell—and having his son kept in King’s Landing would keep him loyal to the crown if he knew what was good for him. Behind this, Sansa was the next eldest child—and the eldest always inherited, somehow, in the North and always had. She and her husband would act as regents of Winterfell on behalf of their children should Robb leave the fold again. This peace was as precarious as it was complicated and necessary—in Tywin’s words, they could continue fighting when the snows departed once more, but not a moment earlier. Arya understood what he meant, though. This was his last war, and he would like to die peacefully in his bed knowing that the dominion was not consumed in warfare.

For Arya, her mother’s concern was cautious. She had never been a girl who took easily to her mother’s instruction, and now she had lived like a wild animal in the eyes of her mother. Arya Stark was no lady when she left King’s Landing after her father’s death, and she was no lady when she returned. The few curtsies and “my lords,” that seemed to be wrung from her were wrung out by Tywin Lannister more often than they were by Catelyn Stark. Mother had let emotions get in the way the same manner Father let honor get in the way. Both had their times and uses, but here in King’s Landing such things were best kept private if not completely secret.

Arya had wondered if her mother would ever be able to understand this and had long since despaired about it when Lady Catelyn surprised her greatly at the wedding of Sansa Stark to Tyrion Lannister.

It had been a humiliating affair from beginning to end. The small set of steps for Tyrion to climb had been made slightly too short, and Sansa had had to stoop just a little for him to properly put his Lannister cloak over her shoulders. If she had had to kneel it might have been more dignified, but it would be admitting defeat to do away with the steps. The red of Sansa’s hair might have clashed against the red of the cloak save for the excessive workings of gold thread into the fabric—the way the light caught all three, hair, velvet, and gold, made Sansa glow like a jewel.

She had been beautiful as Tyrion led her out of the sept, and Arya was fairly sure that her sister hadn’t known how to fall quite so gracefully a year ago when someone tripped her. She didn’t see who did such a thing but Tywin did. Whoever had done so likely didn’t live to see the starlight that evening because while Tywin Lannister was many things he was not one to tolerate such blatant disrespect to his house. He hated his son, but he loved the dignity his family House bestowed on those with the name Lannister more than any hatred he might ever summon for Tyrion.

The mad queen had not attended, though Arya knew Tommen had gone to visit her. He felt sorry that his mother wasn’t feeling well enough to see her brother’s wedding. Arya should have known Cersei had put some poison in his mind when he smiled and chattered with her—he was never so happy after his visits with the mad queen unless the woman had shared some ‘mother’s wisdom’ with him or such nonsense. She didn’t do so often, which is why Arya should have known. Tommen’s smiles were rare though these days and she liked to see him happy—he was a sweet boy, if a little too sensitive for her taste.

His speech as he announced the bedding was expected, but what was not expected was his smiling insistence that he grant the King’s Seal on the marriage of his uncle and Lady Sansa. From the way both Mother and Tywin had frozen, nearly recoiled in fact, he knew not truly of what he spoke. Arya had an inkling, too, from how Tyrion’s eyes became fixed on his plate. Tommen’s smile was starting to flag right before Tywin nodded to Mother and she nodded back.

They each raised their goblets and murmured that they would accompany the king to see their children fulfill His Grace’s wishes. There were cheers from a side of the feasting hall that seemed a little forced, but brought the rest of the hall around to cheering in better earnest as the six of them left the room. There was no time to ask what she was about to watch, but then again Arya was a smart girl and didn’t need everything explained to her. Tommen’s mother had put this into his head to cause pain and disruption—and though she’d failed with four of her targets, the two people she seemed to hate most wouldn’t escape it.

Arya (and she supposed Tommen as well, who later seemed mortified by what he’d commanded his uncle to do) learned just what the King’s Seal was that evening. Rather than wait for a septa to confirm the bedding had taken place, the King—or the Lord of the castle, outside of King’s Landing—witnessed the bedding first hand. Accompanying him would be his wife and the parents of the wedded couple. Arya had desperately wanted to look away, but she owed it to Sansa for not realizing Tommen’s—Cersei’s—intent earlier. Looking away would be pretending Sansa’s humiliation wasn’t happening, that while her tears never fell she did flinch in some sort of agony with each of her new husband’s movements over her.

Tywin and Mother had been similarly resolute. Each watched with clenched jaws and stiffly straight backs, more angry than embarrassed as the married couple fulfilled their marital duty. They were each old enough that a bedding was far below their threshold for shock.

Tommen, however, didn’t look.

Once they left the chamber—shutting the door just in time to cut off Sansa’s terrorized weeping and Tyrion’s apologetic begging for forgiveness—Arya slapped him for it. There was no one about, only Mother and Tywin. There would be no repercussions, she knew. He stared at her in shock, almost moving to say something when she slapped him again.

“You are the king, Your Grace, and the laws of the land are yours to exercise,” she hissed, her hand raised for a third strike, “but that does not mean you must or _should_.”She had him tight by the front of his jerkin, keeping him close so her blow—should it fall—would mean something to the boy-king. He had the presence of mind to look ashamed then, coloring red right up to his ears. Her mother tried to get her to let go, while Tywin stared at the scene from a few paces away. His reserve was what saved Tommen from that third cuff, not Mother’s words of wisdom.

“They are your people,” she said in a more normal voice, “and you should love and respect them. You honored my sister and her husband with your decision tonight, Your Grace, but honor is neither loving or respectful. You and I of all people should know that.”  And then she let him go, turning his shocked form to the side slightly so as to thread her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“I believe His Grace told my sister’s guests that we would return with good news,” she murmured in her best lady’s voice as she propelled Tommen forward. Behind her swishing skirts, she heard Mother squabbling with Tywin on whether or not she ought to take Tywin’s offered arm. Despite her horror at Sansa’s latest degradation, she resolutely schooled her face into one reflecting joy because the peace was now purchased in earnest.

She promised herself to ask her father, whenever the Stranger came for her life, why Stark blood had to be shed every time there was to be either war or peace. It was hardly a fair thing.


	3. Chapter 3

 

It had been something like two years since she’d interacted with Tyrion Lannister, and she didn’t remember him very well other than that he was possessed of a cruel tongue when it came to jests and that he held his head high even when he was so wine-sick he could barely stand. Now he stood by her sister as her husband and through his silky tones Arya could sense a deep seated and patient fury in him. People who snickered at the couple had their servants hired away from them faster than they could hire more—or the brothels wouldn’t cater to them any longer, or the food delivered to their chambers was often unfortunately spoiled and the kitchens were already closed. He was, in a word, thorough.

She hadn’t truly met Jaime Lannister—who had been released from the Kingsguard and run away to marry Brienne of Tarth, by all accounts—but she felt as she looked at Tyrion that this man was truly the best son of Tywin Lannister. He wasn’t impulsive and there was little anyone could pin on him if his actions were found out. A lion lazing in the sun, surveying the land around—one of Maester Luwin’s books had been all about the lives of lions in Essos. What had stuck with her was that they bided their time.

Tyrion and Sansa had come to some sort of peace after their wedding night. Arya was glad for them, though she didn’t mention anything of it. There was no need to pry into their affairs as the only thing she—or anyone else—needed to pry about had been witnessed by the king. The day after the wedding, neither person had left the chamber and the servants and handmaidens had all been sent away. Only the person bearing the morning and evening meals was allowed entrance, and then for just a moment.

When they reemerged Sansa was dry eyed, Tyrion was tight lipped, and they accompanied one another nearly everywhere. It was a nearly impenetrable defense and Arya wondered if everyone else saw the few weak walls as she did—there was a hint of hiding behind Tyrion from Sansa, and there was a hint at honest affection from Tyrion. There were worse weaknesses she supposed, and it was good to see the few times a week that Tyrion drew a smile or even a small laugh from his wife.

It was of course far less than she could draw out of Tommen on a given day, but Tommen was a child even younger than herself. He was easily distracted with kittens or a maester’s research exercise. Arya had lived among grown men too long, Tywin told her when she complained of this, for now she sought the man within the boy she was given. She would scoff at him and add water to his wine to punish his unwanted observation.

Sometimes she wondered if he knew about Jaqen H’ghar and the kiss she’d given him to pay for Joffrey’s life.

A lion, lazing in the sun, she thought as she watched him go over reports and figures one day.

“You’ll not be allowed to read the various letters sent to the king and his council, little wolf. You will have to live off of scraps dropped from the table—half a sentence of a conversation, a long look, a maester of the king’s letters hurrying your husband from your chamber in the middle of the night. But I seem to recall you were living off of table scraps at Harrenhal so it won’t be so different I suppose,” Tywin said, not looking away from the letter he was taking notes from. His pen scratched the page in a familiar way and she wondered if she’d ever sat this long with her father as he worked.

“I was memorizing what I could from your letters that day you found me out, I already know this will be even harder,” she admitted softly, getting up to pace around the room. The long skirts she’d thought she’d escaped swished and whispered along behind her, the gray silk so fine and the fastenings so burnished she felt almost wrapped up in metal, ice, and snowfall. She was emulating the Mad Queen in her dress and as much in mannerism as she could stand—Cersei had worn red as much as she could, to remind her subjects that she was of House Lannister. Well, Arya wore gray to remind them that she was of House Stark. There were minor attempts to also speak in the same tones and structures as the Mad Queen, but that was a lady’s skill far beyond Arya’s patience. Sansa might have mastered it, but never Arya despite the fact that she could order Tommen around flawlessly when she adopted Cersei’s haughty inflections.

Tywin looked up from his letter and watched her pacing for a few long breaths.

“You are learning fast, Lady Stark. You will do well here. I only hope that when Tommen takes the throne in his own right that you shall continue my work.”

Arya was about to say something when a maid rushed into the room with a barely dropped curtsy, whispering rapidly to Tywin and then—with a frightened glance at Arya—fleeing the room. Tywin set his quill and his letter down, returning the quill to the holder and shutting the ledger upon which he worked before settling back into his chair.

“Your goodsister has begun her laboring in earnest,” he murmured, reaching for his wine glass and scowling when he tasted how much Arya had watered it down. If anything, Arya straightened her back and attempted to look down her nose at him. If he stood up she would look ridiculous but for now she flared out her best impression of the Mad Queen. _A peacock,_ she thought, _Queen Cersei was ever a peacock. Tywin is the lion lazing in the sun, no matter how high the winter snows pile around him._

“I have long prayed that she will give my brother a son, the gods have now seen fit to give their answer,” she said, the response crafted after a long moment of remembering the art of lady’s speech. Saying without saying, speaking your mind while appearing empty headed, verbally abusing while appearing to compliment—there was a lot. Sansa was a master of it, even better than the Mad Queen had been Tywin had admitted a few weeks ago in private. Arya had a long way to go, but at least Tywin did not glare at her for any perceived error in her act. He was alarmingly good at seeing through her acts.

“Your sister likely awaits your company outside of the birthing chamber. Please be free to take your leave to attend her and later go with her to inform the king that his nephew-to-be has been brought into the world.”

Arya didn’t deflate at how he pointed out what she’d missed. She needed all the help she could get. She had only the barest interest in learning how to be a proper lady, and it was a time like this that she wished—only barely—that she had been fashioned by the gods to be a woman suited to her placement in the world. Beneath this was the terror that there was no defect in her creation, that she had always been meant to never quite fit in.

Servants bowed their heads low to her as she walked towards Lady Talisa’s rooms. They were situated close to Mother’s and her own—Arya briefly considered changing out of her dress if she was simply going to be sitting doing needlework for several hours, but decided against it. Whenever she had to change dresses for something as simple as a meal it made her want to scream. She wasn’t going to change dresses for this unless Sansa hissed some lady’s rule in her ear.

This never came, though, as Sansa was sitting on a low bench that hadn’t been in the corridor that morning. Her husband stood next to her, holding her hand and speaking to her in low tones of comfort. Arya’s sister looked nearly green she was so pale, and her breaths were the long and measured kind that Arya recognized from someone who was wine-sick and attempting not to wretch their stomach clean. For half a moment she puzzled on it—it wasn’t like Sansa to overindulge in anything let alone wine—but only half a moment because she took a step back in shock as she understood. Two months married and Sansa was already with child. Lord Tywin might even crack a smile by the end of the day at the rate things were going.

“Lord Tyrion, I beg you help my lady sister to her chambers she looks as though she needs rest.” It was the most diplomatic thing Arya could come up with. Sansa shook her head at Arya’s words and Tyrion made no motion to get his wife to stand, nor did he look up to meet her eyes as he spoke.

“My lady wife requires rest, I do agree, but I have no desire to take her back to our rooms and risk humiliating her if she wretches along the way.” Arya stared at the two for a moment before picking up her skirts and running to her room. There was a wash basin and water jug that she could use for Sansa. It wouldn’t be the best place to puke, but it was a bit more dignified than the floor. As she returned she didn’t run, not wanting to accidentally trip and shatter her meager gifts.

Tyrion’s shoulders sank in relief as Arya handed over the jug to him and the basin to Sansa. Her sister’s only reaction were a few tears spilling down her cheeks as she finally gave into her body’s insistence that breakfast was to be returned forthwith. Her dwarf husband set the jug down on the floor and rubbed consolingly at Sansa’s neck. Just then a servant emerged from Lady Talisa’s chamber, her arms filled with damp and messed linens.

“Please bring Lady Lannister another basin and a cloth to wash her face,” Arya called out and the maid managed a halfway decent curtsy in response. Once the woman had hurried out of earshot Arya took out her handkerchief and wetted it with a bit of the water from the jug. Tyrion took it from her and wiped at his wife’s brow, murmuring soft comforts to her as he did so. Without anything to do—no servants to order and no room on the bench to offer comfort for her sister Arya took up the pacing she’d left off with Tywin once more.

It was that or get her needlework from her room and she flat out refused to do that yet.

She had been so concerned for her sister that she nearly jumped out of her skin when a shrill cry of pain shot through the air, coming from behind Lady Talisa’s door. Shortly after there was Mother’s firm voice, likely telling the Volanti woman that everything would be alright or giving comforting acknowledgment of the pain. Mother had birthed five children, and the first was almost always the worst.

“That will be you before your next name day, my dear wife,” she heard Tyrion tease Sansa as the wretching seemed to have abated for at least a few minutes. There was a raw sort of honest affection in his words, wholly unexpected from what Arya remembered of him. Sansa’s voice was gritty from bile but there was a ribbing in her answering tone.

“Someday I will expose you for the degenerate you are, husband, and it will be I who laughs then.”

“I dare you to find such a flaw that hasn’t already been discovered or speculated upon.” Tyrion’s tone was so full of pompous self-righteousness that there was no mistaking his mischievous intent behind the words.

“Speculation is not confirmation, my lord husband,” Sansa mumbled, setting the wash basin aside and wiping a few wisps of hair back from her sweaty forehead with the back of her wrist. She made everything look so graceful and ladylike—even the aftermath of throwing her breakfast up. Arya wanted to lean back against the wall and observe at the couple across from her but that servant would be back at any time and she disliked looking anything but her best. It was a hard game to play, but she had always liked a challenge.

Tommen had mocked her exactly once for her short hair and though she’d then trounced him in a wrestling match she did consent to grow her hair long like the other court ladies. She wore it loose, though, as she had once upon a time in Winterfell and it fell down her back in roiling waves of black and brown. It was important, according to Lady Talisa, that a particular aesthetic be adopted for her rule—as well as changes implemented to keep people from murmuring against it.

She relearned southron styles of dress and fought off handmaidens and lady’s maids who attempted to control her hair. Arya fully planned on becoming the woman in whose shadow the Mad Queen had apparently walked for nearly twenty years—she would be Lyanna Stark, beloved of the royal family and stolen away from her home by the prince once again. But where Lyanna’s disappearance had started a civil war, Arya’s reappearance had ended one.

There was another series of wails from Lady Talisa’s room and Arya started pacing and saying her prayers to the Seven as well as to the old gods. Let the Volanti woman give the Starks a son so that if the gods let Bran and Rickon live the peace would not fracture. The North would be mistrustful of a child raised in the south, but people were malleable when given responsibility—and Arya knew the northron lords put stock into such notions, and that they would be doubly forgiving for the grandson of Ned Stark.

Arya knew that her various rebellious exploits with Tommen were well circulated in the North—Sansa had even composed a few songs and hesitantly given them to Arya to pass along to Tywin and his cronies. They were so very far from the North that they had to show them that the future queen had not forgotten her independence. That she was her own person, uncorrupted by the soft and pretty ways of the South. It wasn’t the legacy Sansa wanted for her sister, but Arya didn’t want Lannister nieces and nephews but here she was.

The servant Arya had sent away reappeared with a few others who brought towels and a light meal of breads and oils, while a steaming pot of tea was on a second tray that had three cups. Of course she would ask such a favor of the spy—why else would the woman leave the chamber than to report the course of the birth to the Hand of the King. Arya nearly put her hand to her face in exasperation but instead smiled prettily and thanked them for their trouble. One of them lingered before Tyrion shot her a particularly vicious comment that gawking was not an acceptable work-task.

More spies, she confirmed to her sister’s husband with a nod. Well there’s one cat out of the bag. Now, she thought as she snagged a piece of Sansa’s bread and munched on it as she paced from wall to wall in the corridor, they only had to wait on what kind of cat came out of Lady Talisa’s bag.

“Will you leave for the Rock soon then?”

Her question took both Sansa and Tyrion by surprise. Arya suddenly wished she could take back the question. If her goodbrother was taking Sansa and her unborn babe away Arya would be left alone in King’s Landing. She would be marooned here with Mother and Lady Talisa and expected to be a lady without any _helpful_ coaching from Sansa.

“I do believe my father has given governance of the Rock to his steward until such time as I have a son to whom I will play regent,” Tyrion’s voice was measured but there was a thread of warning in his tone to not question further. She hoped that he didn’t mean what she thought he meant: that if Sansa birthed a son, she and the babe would be sent to the Westerlands and Tyrion would remain in King’s Landing. It was, in Arya’s limited experience, a good way to lose a father and a husband.

She did not want Sansa to once again be an open bargaining chip in this horrible game of money and bloodlines.

“My husband has been telling me of Casterly Rock,” Sansa spoke up then, taking Tyrion’s hand and folding her fingers around it like the perfect lady she was, “and he has told me of the Westerlands as well. They were governed by stewards and communique delivered by ravens during Lord Tywin’s last round as Hand of the King, and are well equipped to do so again—should the need arise.”

Arya nearly missed the twitch of a smile and the squeeze of fingers that Tyrion sent his wife before he took a few steps away from her. There was no way that Tyrion Lannister wasn’t falling in love with his wife and there was no way, Arya bit her lip and looked up at the windows to try and appear regal, that his wife wasn’t reciprocating. It was a far better outcome than she had hoped for her sister since escaping King’s Landing.


End file.
